Your Last Dance
I saw you dancing with her last night. I saw you hold her the way you held me. I watched in agony, your every move cut into my heart, deeper and deeper. I bled in tears, until I couldn't choke anything up anymore. Now you come to me, concerned. As if you didn't know. When I push you away, you come right back. I almost believe you. Almost. "How dare you?" I spit. You pretend to be confused. How sweet. You run your finger through my hair, pleading with your eyes. I swipe away your hand. You look hurt. I hope you are. "You are a pig," I say, my voice is fiery and filled to the brim with anger and agony. The horror surfaces on your face. Oh, yes, I have discovered your secret. What you don't know, I have killed her. I stabbed her with a knife, and carved her beautiful face into a pulp. I drained her of her blood, sucking out each and every little drop with my tongue. It was delicious. "But, it was a mistake!" you cry, trying to hold my tear-soaked face in your hands. Pathetic. "You are a mistake." I snarl, and smack away your hand again. I was sure to remember my nails, and I cut your hand. "You are my only love." You say, tears beginning to seep from under you eyelids. Cute. "If so, explain these," I say venomously, and throw down a thick stack of love note at your feet. You only gawk, realizing that you haven't got another excuse. You've run out of time, also. "Oh, please, forgive me!" you cry. I only smile. Forgiveness was not an option. I take your face in my hands, your beautiful and tormented face. Carefully, I reach up on my toes, so that I way whisper into your ear. "You can burn with her in the fires of hell." I slowly and carefully kiss your tear stained cheek. Might as well give you something to remember. I reach for my knife. You still weep like a baby. You are a baby. I place the tip to your neck, and watch your breathing suddenly stop; you know whats going to happen. The tip breaks your skin, and sinful blood begins to strickle. Deeper and deeper, until you can't hold yourself up any longer. You fall backwards, your face filled with pain and anguish. Good, you are dying, but are not dead. I bend down beside you, and take one of your curly locks in my fingers. Your eyes are barely able to focus on me, and I like the fact that you try. Your lips move, but no sound comes out. You dying words aren't heard. They don't deserve to be heard. They mean nothing but dirt to me. You are dirt. You are filth. I don't believe I could've ever kissed your, sinning, purple lips. In anger, I plunge my knife into your chest, and watch you bleed. Hah, your eyes are closing. You die, watching me laugh at you. I hope you are happy, knowing you danced with her. Instead of me. Category:Mental Illness